


Mime

by ladysisyphus



Series: Wolves [24]
Category: Fargo (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-27
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-02-06 10:59:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1855603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladysisyphus/pseuds/ladysisyphus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The guy on the floor wasn't a bad guy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mime

The guy on the floor wasn't a bad guy -- not like they were bad guys, not like his boss was a _real_ bad guy. But he was a guy who knew things they'd been tasked with finding out, and unfortunately for him, that meant he was on the floor.

"It goes like this, Frank," said Numbers, pacing around the concrete work deck of the auto shop with show, measured steps. Numbers had a gun, and he had it visible in his right hand, but it was more or less a bluff; if he wanted the guy dead, the guy'd be dead already, and the fact that the guy wasn't dead already was a pretty good indicator that he could cooperate and remain un-dead. His choice. "We don't care about the safe. We don't care about the ledgers. We don't even care about -- what was her name again?" Numbers looked at Wrench, who stared back at him with absolutely no change of expression. "Ulrika, right. She's off doing her little thing, and that's good for her."

Frank was bald from the middle of his forehead almost all the way back, with half a dozen hairs combed over the shiny pink expanse. Frank was not fooling anyone right now on _so_ many levels. "There's no fifth truck," he repeated, his jaw set and steady with a liar's practiced calm. "I took four in on Tuesday, I sent four back out on Friday. The repair logs are in the office, in the grey file cabinet, top drawer, front folder."

"Yeah, Frank, that's what you said earlier. Kinda word for word." Numbers sighed and took back to pacing, letting each of his steps reverberate through the otherwise cold, empty space. "I don't like word for word."

"I ain't afraid of you." Frank looked from Numbers to Wrench and back again, smug defiance curling at his lips. "We've got a contract. Fargo won't kill that golden goose of theirs. So you trained monkeys just do your little scary song-and-dance like your bosses tell you to and fuck off out of my garage, back to your little monkey homes."

Numbers did not roll his eyes, but only through heroic effort on his part. He was learning to hate Frank more every second, and the fact that the little shit damn near had Fargo's number on his usefulness wasn't helping. "We could be gone in ninety seconds. Out that door, out of your life. You're the one who's keeping us here, Frank."

"Go fuck yourselves," said Frank, adding a middle finger for emphasis. Lord, was Numbers ever getting tired of this. He hadn't eaten since lunch, either. Now it was on past eleven at night, and instead of digging into some gloriously disgusting burger at some roach-infested roadside greasy spoon, he was here. Despite orders from Fargo to leave the little weasel alive, Numbers felt his trigger finger getting twitchy. He wondered if he could blame it on low blood sugar. No, killing the guy would mean disposing of the body, and that would make dinner take _even_ longer. Some days he hated his job.

That was when Wrench began moving his hands, except that he was just enough at the edge of Numbers' peripheral vision that all Numbers caught were a few quick letters. Wrench's whole body language had burst to life, though, a sharp contrast from the iron pillar he'd been only moments before; his formerly impassive expression now wore a sharp frown, and his arms were loose and strong. When Numbers frowned at him, Wrench repeated: I think I understand what I did wrong with E-M-R-L-D-W-A-P-N.

Frank's already-pale face drained to a chalky white. "W-w-what's he--" Frank looked up at Numbers. "What's he doing?"

Numbers ignored him, still trying to make sense of what Wrench had signed. Years of practice had made him pretty good, but letters could be hard as hell, especially without context. He tucked the gun into his jacket: Again?

E-M-E-R-A-L-D-W-E-A-P-O-N, repeated Wrench angrily, spelling at a slightly less superhuman speed. Ocean monster. Green.

Numbers felt his eyes start to go wide, and he reined them back in with an angry glare in Frank's direction. If he cracked up right now, it would blow everything. He set his jaw before signing back: What did you do wrong?

M-I-M-E-M-A-T-E-R-I-A signed Wrench, his expression just this side of pure fury. Nobody else is doing enough damage alone. But a M-I-M-E-M-A-T-E-R-I-A can let me double Cloud's multi-sword attack. 9-9-9-9. 9-9-9-9.

"Oh, Jesus," whimpered Frank, his head darting back and forth like he was at some terrible tennis match. "Oh, sweet Jesus, what's going on?"

Are you sure that would work? asked Numbers, who wasn't quite yet willing to own up to the number of hours he'd spent looking over Wrench's shoulder, watching the boxy little people hop around the screen.

Wrench fixed Frank with a long, nasty glare before giving a shrug and turning back: I don't know. I could try it. Maybe I need a gold C-H-O-C-O-B-O. But that's a lot of time racing birds, and I don't know if I want to. It gets boring.

Could you buy one? Numbers asked.

Wrench snorted, and this time, at least, the expression was an appropriate companion to his hands' motion: You can't _buy_ a gold C-H-O-C-O-B-O. You have to race birds so they get fast, and then you feed them special plants, and then they fuck and make fast gold baby birds.

"Look, I just repaired a tire, okay? Rear right." Frank raked a hand back over the top of his head, displacing the few covering strands he'd no doubt so artfully placed there hours ago. "Some big Swede driving. Lenny? Larry? Something like that, I can't remember."

Numbers bit the inside of his cheek until it bled to keep from smiling, but otherwise ignored Frank: Aren't the birds usually gold already?

They're _yellow_ , Wrench corrected, shaking the _Y_ hand by his face with bitter fury: What's wrong with you, you can't tell yellow from gold? Yellow are normal, gold can run over oceans. And sometimes there are little islands with special weapons on them. I think there's a special S-U-M-M-O-N-M-A-T-E-R-I-A on one of those islands. But I can't get to it unless I'm riding a gold C-H-O-C-O-B-O.

Numbers nodded, considering: What about the M-I-M-E?

Wrench cracked his knuckles, a series of terrifying rifle-pops, before continuing: That only works if it has something good to copy. And remember, it has a timer. Twenty minutes only. If I copy things that take too long, it doesn't matter how good they are at damaging. The time runs out.

"Lefty! Lefty! It was Lefty Jonsson! Okay?" It couldn't have been far above freezing in that garage bay, but Frank's face was pouring with sweat. "He had me scrub the VIN! Christ, I didn't know he was working for the Chinese! I swear on my dead mother, if I'd known, I would've said no. Okay? It was just supposed to be a fucking side job! A fucking _side_ job!"

I think we're almost done here, Numbers signed; you want to try it when we get back tonight?

I want to get _dinner_ first, signed Wrench. He thought for a second, and then drew two fingers into talons and raked them down in front of his chest with unnecessary force: Pizza. He gave Lenny another long, cold look, then took a quick step forward in his direction, and Lenny flinched and whimpered. Numbers almost felt sorry for the little weasel; he'd never seen someone go from cocky shitbag to singing canary in such quick succession.

Numbers frowned: I was thinking burgers.

Wrench sighed: We can take pizza back to the room, and _then_ I can try it. Fair?

"That's right," Numbers said aloud, sounding as much like he'd just won an argument as he could muster. He turned back to Frank, this time with a sinister smile. "Good news, Frank. I've talked my friend here out of driving a claw hammer into your balls."

Frank crumpled forward and pressed his forehead to the floor; his shoulders were shaking. "Oh, sweet Jesus, sweet Jesus."

Numbers nudged Frank with the toe of his shoe until he looked up. "But this Lefty Jonsson guy comes by again? Your _first_ move is to call us. You don't, and I won't be able to hold him back."

Frank nodded helplessly, recklessly. Numbers could only begin to imagine what horrors his brain had written onto the movements of their hands. Then again, he supposed the mechanics of taking down a giant underwater war machine _were_ a pretty terrifying thing to discuss in front of normal people. With one last pointed grin, he turned on his heel and began to walk out the far door. Seconds later -- after some concluding threatening gesture, no doubt -- Wrench followed close behind, their hard-heeled footsteps resonating in their otherwise silent wake.

**Author's Note:**

> Knights of the Round, mime, and you're done. Get the Brady Games guide next time. It'll save you a trip to the library to visit GameFAQs on their computer.


End file.
